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The lock clicks loud and echoing across the vaulted space of the safehouse. Tim steps inside, the weight of the night still clinging to his shoulders like a second skin. His gearbag hits the floor with a thud, the impact vibrating up through the soles of his feet. The apartment is dark, just the sickly glow of the server rack in the corner, wires snaking like veins, fans humming a whirring lullaby. It smells like gun oil, like coffee left too long in the pot, like Jason.
That last scent, leather and sweat and something uniquely him, hits him like a defibrillator. His exhaustion evaporates. His pulse kicks up.
He’s back.
Relief crashes over him so hard his knees nearly buckle. He’d been tracking Jason’s progress through the narrows, listening to the static-laced updates as Jason dismantled another crew of gunrunners. Then there was silence. An hour of it. An hour of Tim’s brain short-circuiting, running every worst-case scenario like a glitching holoscreen. Jason could handle himself. Jason was a force of nature wrapped in scars and righteous fury. But Tim’s mind didn’t give a shit about logic. It just knew, knew the way Gotham chewed up people like them, knew the way Jason’s luck had a habit of running out at the worst possible moment.
He toes off his boots, and pads across the floor on silent socked feet. The safehouse is a perfect fucking metaphor for them, Tim’s side all sterile precision, monitors stacked like soldiers, tools laid out with surgical neatness. Jason’s side? A goddamn warzone. A half-stripped rifle on a cleaning mat. A dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice face-down on the couch (Tim still didn’t know if it was a joke or if Jason actually liked it). A pile of knives fanned out on the coffee table, blades glinting in the dim light. Order and chaos, he grins looking a little feral in the dim light, Him and Jason.
The bedroom door’s ajar, moonlight slicing across the floor like a blade. Tim pushes it open.
The room is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the window and the steady rhythm of Jason’s breathing. Tim stands in the doorway, watching the way the neon leaking through the shades painted stripes across Jason’s bare back, the white streak in his hair glowing faintly in the dim light. He’s still wearing his tactical pants, but the rest of his gear is shed in a heap on the floor. The iconic red helmet sits on the nightstand, its blank, expressive eyes seeming to watch over its owner. His leather jacket is a crumpled heap by the door. One combat boot is still on, the other lies on its side a few feet away, as if he’d managed to kick it off before oblivion claimed him. Tim feels a wave of fondness roll over him at the sight.
Jason is sprawled out on his stomach, one arm flung above his head, the other curled possessively around Tim’s pillow. He looks younger in sleep, the hard lines of cynicism and rage smoothed from his face, leaving only a weary vulnerability. Tim’s heart aches with a fierce, possessive love. This is his Jason. Not the Red Hood, the terrifying crime lord and vengeful ghost of Gotham. Just Jason. Exhausted, beautiful, and completely, utterly his.
The sheets are tangled around his legs, exposing his firm broad shoulders, the dip of his spine, his ridiculous tapered waist and the firm swell of his ass straining against the durable fabric of his pants. Scattered across his tanned skin he could see the scars from a lifetime of violence. Vigilantism is hard on a body and being associated with Batman was no way to keep safe. Tim knows this intellectually but there are times when he sees the results embedded in Jason’s skin or the way his muscles still twitch even in sleep like he was dreaming of fighting, of running, of something and Tim hates the life they lead just a little. Tim is possessive by nature and would burn down the world to protect what’s his and the man sprawled out across the bed tousled and deep asleep is all his. A familiar heat begins to coil low in Tim’s belly. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a deeper, more complex hunger.
Tim relaxes further against the doorframe, his gaze tracing the powerful lines of Jason’s body, hand reaching down to the front of his pants where his cock is starting to harden with anticipation for what comes next.
They had fought a lot when they had started dating, about acceptable risks and when to leave each other alone and at one point Tim thought it was going to destroy them, their natures too different to be reconciled. But through a rather ridiculous drunken conversation they had stumbled upon a solution to at least some of the issues.
“You know,” Jason had murmured, his voice thick with sleep and drink as he lay draped over Tim’s chest. “Sometimes I’m so fucking tired, I wish you could just… take it. Without me having to do anything.”
Tim had stilled, his hand stroking through Jason’s hair. “Take what?”
“This,” Jason had said, gesturing vaguely at his own body. “Just… use me. Fuck me while I’m out. I trust you.” He’d lifted his head then, his lazarus green eyes intense and serious in the dim light. “I’d like that, Tim. Waking up sore and full of you. Knowing you got what you needed.”
The offer had been a revelation. For Jason, a man whose body had been brutalized, stolen from him, and then violently returned, to offer it up with such total, unconditional trust was the most profound declaration of love Tim could imagine. It was a gift. A sacred one. And Tim, who so often struggled to express the overwhelming depth of his feelings, saw it as a way to worship, to care for Jason in a language that was purely physical, primal, and utterly honest. Tonight, the offer hangs in the air, shimmering with possibility. Jason is exhausted. He’s safe. He’s here. He trusts him.Tonight Tim can take care of what's his.
Tim strips quietly, his movements becoming practiced and deliberate, his mind shifting into the methodical mode he uses for dismantling a bomb or hacking a secure server. This requires precision. Care. Reverence.
First, he deals with the remaining gear. He kneels down and grips the heel of Jason’s remaining boot, easing it off his foot with a practiced gentleness. The boot lands on the floor with a soft thud. Next, the pants. He unfastens the heavy-duty buckle of the tactical belt, the click sounding deafeningly loud in the quiet room. Jason doesn’t stir. Tim works the button and zipper open, his fingers brushing against the warm skin of Jason’s stomach. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and slowly, carefully, tugs the heavy pants down over Jason’s muscular thighs and calves, baring him completely. He’s wearing simple black boxer briefs, and Tim smiles. Even in his choice of underwear, Jason is practical.
Tim folds the pants and places them on a chair, his movements economical. Then he turns his attention back to the man on the bed. He knows Jason’s body better than his own by now, the way his hips will lift just slightly when Tim’s fingers trace the crease of his ass, the way his breath would hitch even asleep if Tim blew warm air over the back of his neck. He reaches out, his touch feather-light, and traces the scars along Jason's neck. Jason’s skin is warm. He’s alive. He’s here. With him.
The heat in Tim’s gut intensifies, sharp and demanding. He needs this. He needs to connect with Jason on this fundamental level, to overwrite the violence of the past with the devotion of the present.
He moves to the bathroom, his steps silent. He retrieves the big bottle of lube from the cabinet and a small stack of dark towels. Preparation is everything. He returns to the bedroom and spreads one of the towels on the bed next to Jason’s hips, just in case. The last thing he wants is to make a mess for them to deal with in the morning. This is about pleasure and care, not chores.
He strips out of his own clothes, dropping them onto the floor without a second thought. His body is wiry and lean, a map of taut muscle and sinew built for endurance and speed, a stark contrast to Jason’s brute strength. He’s already hard, his cock thick and aching, slick with a bead of precum.
He crawls onto the bed, straddling Jason’s thighs, and leaning down to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. Jason mumbles something incoherent, shifting just enough that Tim can see the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his lips part. He shifts a little restlessly and it's the perfect position. His back is to Tim, his incredible ass presented like an offering. Tim’s mouth goes dry.
"Such a good boy for me," Tim murmurs, more for himself than for Jason. Jason makes a low, contented sound in his throat but doesn’t wake. He’s so deeply under, so trusting. A thrill, sharp and electric, shoots through Tim. He reaches for the lube, It’s cool against his skin. He rubs his hands together, warming it, before smoothing his palm over the firm, rounded cheeks of Jason’s ass. Jason’s skin is smooth, the muscles beneath clenched even in sleep. Tim massages him gently, working his thumbs in slow circles, easing the tension from the powerful glutes. He parts the cheeks, exposing the tight, wrinkled pucker of his hole.His fingers are steady even as his pulse hammers in his throat. He doesn't rush. This is part of the game, the slow, deliberate way he’ll stretch Jason open, the way Jason will wake up later knowing he’s been used, that Tim had taken him but having no idea of the details.
He coats his fingers in more lube and gently presses the tip of one against Jason’s entrance. It’s tight, sealed shut. Tim is patient. He applies a little more pressure, circling the tip of his finger around the rim, slicking it with lube, coaxing it to relax. He listens to Jason’s breathing, a steady, deep cadence that assures him he’s still fast asleep.
Slowly, so slowly, he pushes his finger inside. Jason’s body clenches for a second, a reflexive tightening, before the muscles yield to the familiar intrusion. Tim pushes his finger into the knuckle, then stops, letting Jason’s body adjust. The heat inside is incredible, a wet, velvety grip. Jason whines softly when Tim’s fingers breach him, the sound muffled against the pillow. Tim bites his lip, watching the way Jason’s hole clenches around him, greedy even in sleep. "Fuck, Jace," he breathes, adding a second finger, scissoring them just enough to make Jason’s hips jerk. He can feel the texture of the inner walls, the tight ring of muscle just inside. He works his fingers in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, preparing him, making sure it won’t hurt, making sure it will feel good, even if Jason isn’t awake to register it consciously. His body will know. His body will remember the pleasure.
He was already loose from earlier, before patrol, when Tim had fingered him open on the couch and Jason had ridden Tim’s cock until neither of them could see straight. But Tim still took his time, stretching him wider, pressing in deep enough to brush against Jason’s prostate. Jason’s cock twitched against the mattress, a bead of precome leaking onto the sheets.
Tim can't wait anymore. Jason is slick and ready, stretched enough to take him, he withdraws his fingers with a soft, wet sound. He positions himself, grabbing his own cock, which is now painfully hard and dripping. He rubs the head against Jason’s slick hole, coating it in lube and the wetness from inside him. He nudges the tip against the entrance, feeling that tight, hot resistance.
He leans forward, wrapping his arm securely around Jason’s waist, holding him steady. He presses his lips to Jason’s shoulder, right over a cluster of old scars.
“Here I come, baby,” he murmurs.
Then, with one slow, deliberate push, he sinks himself into Jason’s body.
The feeling is fucking electric. It’s like coming home. The tightness is unbelievable, a hot, wet glove squeezing him from all sides. He grinds to a halt, buried only a few inches deep, letting Jason’s body stretch and accommodate his size. Jason lets out another low groan, a sound of pure sleep, and his hips twitch, a slight, unconscious rocking motion that nearly makes Tim come on the spot. Tim paused for a long moment, just breathing, savoring the feeling of being inside him. This is more than sex. It’s an anchor. It’s him, grounding Jason, filling the emptiness that the Lazarus Pit left behind, staking a claim that no one, not even death, can take away.
Tim starts to move.
It was different when Jason was awake, when he was snarling, demanding, fighting for control. But like this? When he is pliant and soft and trusting? Tim can fuck him exactly how he wants. His thrusts are not the frantic, pounding rhythm of a desperate fuck. They are slow, deep, and worshipful. Each push is a testament. Each withdrawal is a promise to return. He pulls almost all the way out, the head of his cock just brushing the entrance, before sinking back in as deep as he can go, filling Jason completely. He watches the muscles in Jason’s back tense and release with each slow, powerful stroke. He puts a hand on Jason’s hip, holding him in place, tilting him just right to hit that perfect spot deep inside.
He leans in close, his lips brushing Jason’s ear. “You feel so good, Jay,” he whispers, his voice thick with arousal. “So fucking tight. Taking my cock like you were made for it.Gonna leave you dripping, baby.”
The one-sided dirty talk is for him, but he likes to think some part of Jason’s sleeping mind hears it, registers the praise. He imagines the words sinking into his subconscious, a reminder of how much Tim wants him, how much he loves every single inch of him.
He picks up the pace slightly, his thrusts becoming more rhythmic, a steady, hypnotic beat. In, out. Deep, slow. He’s fucking his partner, his lover, the most dangerous man he knows, while he sleeps like a child. The trust, the vulnerability, the sheer intimacy of the act is the most powerful aphrodisiac Tim has ever known.
He can feel his own climax building, a low, insistent pressure at the base of his spine. He doesn’t want it to end. He wants to stay buried inside Jason forever. But his body has other ideas. His balls tighten, his hips begin to move on their own, the deep, slow thrusts becoming shorter, faster, more urgent.
“Fuck, Jason… I’m gonna come,” he groans, the words torn from his throat. He braces himself, grips Jason’s hip tighter, and drives himself in one last time, as deep as he can possibly go.
His orgasm rips through him, a white-hot wave of pure bliss. He shouts Jason’s name into his shoulder, his body convulsing as he pumps load after load of hot, thick cum deep inside his sleeping lover. He keeps thrusting, milking out every last drop, filling him, coating his inner walls with his seed.
Tim collapses forward, pressing his forehead between Jason’s shoulder blades, breathing him in. He stays like that for a long moment, softening inside Jason, his come already starting to leak out around his cock. He pulls out slowly, watching the way Jason’s hole stays open for a second, gaping and wet, before clamping shut. A thick rivulet of come dripped down Jason’s thigh.
Tim smirks.
He slips back inside Jason, pushing through the slick wet of his come. He gives Jason a minute, just long enough for his hole to clench around him, milking him for every last drop, before he is hard again.
The second time is rougher but no less worshipful for its force.
Tim flips Jason onto his back, spreading his thighs wide, and pushes back in with a single, sharp thrust. Jason gasps in his sleep, his cock twitching, his hole fluttering around Tim’s length. Tim fucks him like that, with Jason’s legs hitched up over his shoulders, his cock slapping against Jason’s stomach on every snap of his hips. He comes again with a groan, filling Jason up more, his come dripping out of him.
Tim doesn't pull out this time, unwilling to break the connection, his softening cock still nestled deep in Jason’s heat savoring the way his come leaks out around his cock.
It takes him longer to be ready for the third time but the hot slick clench of the man he loves can pretty much always get him going. This time, Jason is whimpering in his sleep, his cock hard and leaking, his hole dripping with Tim’s come. Tim rolls him onto his stomach again, pressing him down into the mattress, and fucks him deep, his balls slapping against Jason’s ass with every thrust. He reaches around, gripping Jason’s cock, stroking him in time with his hips until Jason comes with a broken sound, his release painting the sheets beneath him.
Tim follows with a shudder, his orgasm wrung out of him, his come flooding Jason’s body. He flops down on top of him wrung out from the exertion but filled with a sense of satisfaction. They stay pressed together like that for several minutes, Tim’s breathing slowly returning to normal, Jason’s remaining deep and even. Finally, with a sigh, Tim carefully pulls out. The sound is obscenely wet
Jason’s hole is gaping, swollen and red, come leaking out of him in thick, obscene drips. His thighs are slick with it, his stomach, and the towel Tim had placed beside him earlier is ruined. He reaches for one of the clean towels and does a cursory cleanup, wiping the excess lube from Jason’s skin and the bed, but leaving the evidence of his climax where it belongs: inside. Leaving him used, full and dripping. He gently pulls Jason’s boxer briefs back up, pats his ass gently and pulls the heavy duvet up over Jason, cocooning him in warmth. Tim cleans himself up quietly, in the bathroom with a warm wet washcloth before returning to their bed.
Tim slides down under the covers, curling up behind Jason again, fitting his body against the familiar curves of his back. He wraps an arm around his waist, presses a soft kiss to the back of his neck, and closes his eyes. Sleep claims him almost instantly, his last conscious thought a simple, profound truth: He’s safe. He’s mine.
Sunlight, bright and unwelcome, slices through the gap in the curtains. Jason groans, his mind surfacing slowly from the deep, dreamless depths of exhaustion. He cracks his eyes open, the room coming into focus. He’s under the covers, which he definitely wasn’t when he passed out. His body feels heavy, weighted down, but in a good way. A deeply satisfying ache is settled low in his gut, centered in his ass. It’s a familiar set of sensations, the pleasant soreness, the way his hole feels stretched and full, the sticky, cooling dampness between his cheeks, the slickness of drying cum coating him inside. It's the kind of ache that comes from being thoroughly, lovingly fucked. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face before he can stop it humming delightedly to himself.
Tim.
He knows instantly what had happened and that he hadn’t woken, not even for a second, but his body remembers. It always does. He shifts his hips slightly, and a little trickle of semen leaks out, sliding down his thigh. The feeling is decadent. Filthy. He fucking loves it. He loves the absolute trust of it, the idea that Tim can take his pleasure from him even when he’s completely unconscious, and that Tim’s first instinct is to do it with such care. He loves waking up feeling claimed, used, and utterly cherished all at once.
He turns his head on the pillow and there’s Tim, fast asleep, his face relaxed and boyish. His black hair is a mess, and he’s breathing softly through his mouth. He looks so peaceful.
A surge of affection, so strong it’s like a physical blow, hits Jason right in the chest. This brilliant, stubborn, beautiful man who sees past the ghost of a dead Robin, and just sees him. The man who will argue with him over tactical approaches and then fuck him with a reverence that feels like prayer.
Jason rolls onto his back, the movement pulling at the pleasantly sore muscles of his ass. He stretches, groaning as his whole body protests, then relaxes into the mattress. He reaches a hand down, slipping it into his boxer briefs. His fingers find the sticky evidence of Tim’s visit, and he brings them to his nose. The scent is musky, intimate, and unmistakably Tim.
He feels a fresh wave of arousal, a lazy morning heat. He could wake Tim up, show him just how much he appreciates the late-night attention. He could roll over, press his ass against Tim’s morning wood and see what happens.
But as he looks at Tim’s sleeping face, he sees the faint, dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes. He was out late too. He deserves to sleep.
Jason smiles again, a genuine, soft thing that he would never admit to. He’ll let him rest. He’ll get up, make a pot of coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon, and maybe some pancakes. He’ll let Tim wake up to the smell of breakfast, a silent thank you for the night.
He swings his legs out of bed, the ache in his ass a delightful reminder of Tim’s possession. As he stands, he feels one last, warm gush of cum slide down his inner thigh. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. Not yet. He likes the feeling. It’s a secret they share, a brand of Tim’s love he gets to wear for the rest of the morning.